My Side of the Story, Dr John Watson
by Sandylee007
Summary: ONE PART OF INDEPENDENT TWIN-FICS. We all know how Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were torn apart. We've also seen how they were reunited. But what happened in between? One chapter for each month they spent apart. John Watson's story.
1. June, Homeless

A/N: (**This start-note is identical to that of the twin-fic. 'Just so you won't get confused.**)

Soooo, I decided to try something entirely new. At first I thought about giving just Sherlock his 'What happened during the time-skip?' story, but then it occurred to me that perhaps John deserves his own tale, too. Especially since it's clear that A LOT happened to them both during those months and years. So, here we are. I'm about launch a twin story. Oh dear…! (chuckles)

TO GET IN TO THE WORLD OF ONE OF THESE STORY-TWINS READING THE OTHER IS IN NO WAY NECESSARY. So no worries!

FULL SUMMARY: What happened to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson during the time Sherlock was dead to the world? Each fighting the war on their own, they struggle to survive in a world that will never be the same again. We all know how the journey ended. But what happened along the way?

THE LENGTH OF THE CHAPTERS WILL VARY GREATLY.

DISCLAIMER: Oh, if only…! But nope, I'm not one of those FANTASTIC people who gave us this gift of a series. (sighs gloomily) There will be some quotes in this fic, and nope, I don't own those, either.

WARNINGS: SOME SERIES 3 SPOILERS. Adult themes. Violence. Gore. Depression. Language. (blinks, and looks around) Um… Anyone there…?

Alright, folks…! Since this is REALLY new and nerve-wrecking for me I'd better get going before I change my mind. (gulps) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

* * *

**_My Side of the Story, Dr. John Watson_**

* * *

June – Homeless

* * *

The small flat was so quiet and dark that it was difficult to believe that any living being could be found there. The whole air inside the four walls had changed, something was now missing and would never return. The place didn't feel like a home anymore. Not to the man who stumbled in a few hours earlier.

Dr. John Watson sat on his usual armchair, still as a statue, his glazed over eyes darted straight forward. His jawline was so tight that it was a small miracle nothing broke. The ache wasn't enough to silence the words and memories echoing in his buzzing head.

/ _"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."_ /

/ _"__Who are you? What do you do?"_ /

/ _"__I'm a fake."_ /

/ _"That… was amazing."_ /

/ _"It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."_ /

John breathed hard, burying his face into his hands. Still the voices wouldn't fade away. It was a small mercy that he was too out of it to realize that Sherlock's blood from his still unwashed hands stained his face.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock", he whispered to the empty chair right before him. The sound was impossibly loud in the room's suffocating silence. Nothing but the voices in his head answered him.

* * *

/ _"What's going on?"_

_"An apology."_ /

* * *

John gasped once. Twice. The sounds were dangerously close to turning into sobs. Perhaps they did.

When he came back from the war he imagined that he could never, ever feel so throughoutly lost again. But now… Now he was proven mistaken.

Sherlock introduced him to a new, mad world that he fell in love with instantly. Gave him a purpose. A home.

And now… Now Sherlock was gone. And although John wasn't alone in the world anymore he'd never felt quite as lonely as he did in that very moment, sitting in the entirely too quiet flat with nothing but his memories keeping him company.

Well, perhaps not only his memories.

John jumped with startle when the flat's door opened. Molly Hooper appeared pale and hesitant as she lingered in the doorway, visibly wondering if she was welcomed to enter or not. Her hands were shaking.

John looked into her eyes. Something cracked deep inside him. "He… He wasn't a fake."

"I know."

John wasn't quite sure what happened. But all of a sudden he was standing up with Molly hugging him stunningly tightly, her face buried to his shoulders and her whole small frame quivering. It sounded like she was crying from the bottom of her heart and soul. John couldn't bring himself to shed a tear. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed his arms around her. There, with his eyes firmly on Sherlock's chair, John felt emptier than ever in his life.

Much later, in the dark of the night, John sat on his chair once more, as though waiting for something. In the end, after hours and hours of perfect stillness, he moved. He took his laptop and opened his blog, then typed although his hands were shaking so badly that it was nearly impossible. The words were the truest he'd ever spoken or written.

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._ (1)

* * *

TBC, OR NOT?

* * *

1) From John's official blog which, to those still wondering, actually does exist. (smirks) So NOT written by me - me no own!

* * *

A/N: Poor, poor John! Such pain and heartbreak. (winces) He's in for a tough one.

Now, folks, the choice is in your hands. To delete, or unleash properly? PLEASE, do let me know whether you'd like to read more of this! It'd mean a lot to me, especially when I'm just letting this story stretch its wings a little.

Thank you, several times over, for reading this! Perhaps I'll be seeing you around…?

Take care!


	2. July, To the Unknown

A/N: I really tried to update faster, but fate wasn't by my side. (winces) But now I'm back. Yay?

I'm really, REALLY happy about the reviews, listing and love you gave for the first chapter. It truly encourages me to type more. So THANK YOU! (hugs) You guys are amazing.

Awkay, before I start to babble on and on, let's go. I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

* * *

July – To the Unknown

* * *

At first DI Gregory Lestrade wasn't entirely sure why he was the one who received the call. Some potentially suicidal poor bloke had been spotted on a rooftop. It was tragic but nothing that should've required his attention. He did understand when the details were presented to him.

The rooftop was that of St. Bart's, and the _bloke_ was one John Watson.

Later on Greg couldn't remember much of the journey to the hospital. Which was alarming, considering that he was foolish enough to be the one driving. All that stuck to him was a constant, resonating thought. A plea, really.

_Please, not again…!_

By the time Greg made it to the bottom of the stairs leading to the rooftop there were already members of staff standing by and he had a feeling that there were people prepared for anything down below as well. He greeted them with a stiff nod, feeling oddly numb considering the fact that his heart was hammering madly and his chest felt like an elephant had been sitting on it. When a nurse moved to follow he stopped her with a shake of head.

True, he most likely wasn't exactly John's favorite person after… well. But they were friends before this whole fiasco. Perhaps he'd have a better chance of succeeding if he went alone.

Hell, in full truth, he had no fucking clue of what he was doing.

Greg didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until he stepped to the rooftop and felt dizzy. For a second or two he just stood there, focusing on breathing and struggling to regain at least a tiny portion of composure. All hope of achieving that was, however, forgotten when he saw the person standing entirely too close to the edge.

It was definitely John, although it took him a lot longer than it should've to recognize the man. Or perhaps a shell of John Watson. It was fifteen days from Sherlock's… _passing_. Based on what Greg saw he was willing to bet that the former soldier hadn't had much sleep since then. It wasn't a far fetched idea to assume that John hadn't been eating, either. There were massive bags underneath the doctor's eyes and his skin held a touch of unhealthy paleness. It was like looking at a ghost. Which was eerie, especially since they were at the place from which…

The thought that crossed Greg right there was truly terrifying. Stung like a knife. Turned his blood into ice.

What if John was thinking of taking a leap of his own?

Greg swallowed loudly, taking a slow step forward. Then another. "John… Just hold still, yeah?" When there was no reaction he dared to approach a new step but nothing more. "Just… Just stay right there."

There was no way – absolutely no way in hell – he'd let another one of his friends plummet to their death. He already failed once. He wasn't planning on repeating that mistake. He refused to believe that he was too late again.

And then John fidgeted, only slightly but still quite enough to make Greg's poor heart skip a beat or two.

Apparently finally realizing that he wasn't alone John turned his head. Some surprise slipped into the sea of pain, anger, remorse and grief. The doctor blinked twice. "What…?"

Greg's mouth opened once, twice, perhaps even thrice before he actually found his voice. "Look, John… I know that…" He couldn't even voice the rest. There was a lump in his throat and sand in his eyes, more than enough to make him lose the words. For several valuable moments he fumbled desperately before a full sentence finally came out. "But… please, step back. Stay there."

For another long while John appeared confused until understanding dawned, making the smaller man's eyes widen a fraction. The former soldier seemed to genuinely attempt to take a step further from the edge but the man's feet were unsteady. For a single, horrifying moment John stumbled closer to the emptiness that already swallowed down Sherlock.

Greg was there instantly, this time.

John shivered when one of Greg's arms kept the doctor from falling down completely. They slid down slowly, Greg never losing the physical contact he had on the ailing man. It was like his fingers squeezing John's shoulder feebly would've somehow kept the man from…

John buried his face into both hands, rubbing so hard that it had to hurt. The man was quaking uncontrollably under Greg's hand. It took a moment before he realized what was happening. Those sounds… The shaking… John was crying. Right there, most likely for the first time since _the event_, the doctor was allowing the damns to come crashing down. It was stunning, really, how someone could fall apart so completely so quietly.

There wasn't much Greg could do but sit there, one of his hands clumsily on John's shoulder and the other pressed hard yet uselessly against the roof. And so he remained there quietly, letting John come undone. Somewhere along the way some tears of his own slipped without him really noticing it.

The gloomy, grey morning slipped past them. Bringing no miracles, salvation or forgiveness. Sitting next to a shell of a human and above the dying place of a great man Greg felt helpless fury the kind he'd never experienced before.

* * *

John was only dimly aware of being coaxed into the building. He may have been given some sort of medication. He wasn't sure and cared far less than he should've. They would've wanted to have him admitted. Greg, bless his soul, told them no and promised to take full responsibility.

John just wanted to go home, even though a part of him kept nagging that such didn't exist anymore.

Perhaps John fell asleep at some point. Because all of a sudden his eyes were closed and his aching head wasn't able to recognize the scents lingering around him. He frowned and wrinkled his nose, rubbing his face roughly to get rid of the dull ache. It wouldn't go anywhere.

"Hey, stop that. You're going to make yourself feel even worse." Greg's voice sounded muffled but he guessed that it had a lot more to do with his head than the DI. "I made some tea. I have a feeling that you could use something to drink. Sit up."

Still more than a little confused John opened his eyes halfway, blinking a couple of times against the blur filling his line of vision. The green mug placed to a small table was the first thing he saw. He took it slowly and held it as though he hadn't been quite sure of what to do with it.

Was this… Greg's flat? How…? _Oh…!_

John didn't know how long it took before he finally found his voice. By then the mug was no longer warm in his hands. "I… I wasn't planning on jumping." He didn't know why that was the first thing that came to his mind. Somehow he just needed to tell Greg. He risked a glance towards the DI. The man's shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension at his admission.

Greg sighed loudly, running a hand through his extremely short cut hair. (Was it that short the last time John saw him?) "Jesus Christ, John…! Do you have any bloody idea how badly you scared me?"

John swallowed laboriously, tasting tea. Had he taken a sip? "I'm sorry", he whispered, staring at the liquid. That was becoming his new mantra.

Greg was silent for a long moment until there was something that could've been a sigh or a sob. Perhaps it was a bit of both. "So am I."

For the longest time they just sat there, both deep in thought. John was glad that Greg didn't ask what he was doing on the rooftop. He wouldn't have been able to explain.

In the end Greg cleared his throat. Obviously preparing himself. "I, uh… I got a call from your…" For some reason the word 'therapist' seemed to be off-limits. Rather amusing, considering all else that'd taken place during the past who knows how many hours. "She sounded pretty worried about you."

John sighed. Why was everyone expecting him to share and open up, talk? "I'll call her later", he murmured, putting away the cold mug of tea.

"Good, she was expecting you to do as much."

The silence that followed wasn't quite as tense as the earlier one. John actually found himself close to dozing off but was able to stop himself at the last moment. Exhaustion was clearly getting the best of him.

Greg's voice managed to startle him although it was soft. "Mrs. Hudson called too. She said that she's cleaned up the… mess."

John stiffened, a sharp jolt of pain crossing him all the way through.

Some kids had decided that it was a hilarious idea to throw eggs at th… _his_ window. And to stain the front door with a bright yellow '_FAKE_'. Those being the first things John saw when he came home from a walk during which people had been staring, whispering and shouting things…

"I can't go back there", John half whispered, half choked out. He shook his head, unable to get rid of all the unpleasant filling it. "I can't… I need to…"

Every time he fell asleep it was the horror film of Sherlock flying down haunting his dreams, overflooding his mind.

He couldn't stop hearing the detective's voice in his head.

It was too much, all of it.

"I made the bed for you." Greg tried to smile but it didn't come out quite right. "And no, I'm not accepting any objections. So sleep. When you wake up we can talk or… whatever."

The thought of going to sleep with someone else present, especially knowing that nightmares were bound to appear, wasn't a very pleasant thought to John. But the sincere worry and devotion in Greg's eyes chased away some of his doubts. He didn't quite smile but felt his eyes soften a little. "Thank you."

At that Greg managed a genuine smile. Even something close to a grin. "Isn't that what friends are for?"

Unfortunately John's prediction was proven correct. Only two hours and sixteen minutes later he woke up screaming, the sight of Sherlock's head cracking open against the pavement haunting his mind even though the nightmare was long gone. Well, it was much harder to escape something that wasn't just a dream.

Still half-asleep, angry, grieving and exhausted to the bone John sauntered towards the kitchen, hoping to find something strong that might've helped him sleep. What he found instead was Greg, who was sipping coffee that smelled sickeningly strong. The man showed him a 'Dr. Who' DVD. "How about some coffee and this?"

In the end they spent the next eighteen hours staring at the screen, most of the time not even really focusing on the actual series. John allowed his over-stimulated mind to be carried somewhere else. Little by little Sherlock's voice whispering in his ear began to grow quieter. And somewhere along the way John was even able to fall asleep, blissfully unaware of the unshed tears shimmering in his eyes.

John slept for the next thirty-two hours. (Throughout that time Greg remained firmly at his side, not daring to leave him out of his sight for even a second. The sight of him on the edge was still too fresh, painful and terrifying.) When John finally regained consciousness it was a very early, grey morning.

John accepted the toast and tea Greg offered him although he wasn't particularly hungry. After that he took his cell-phone and, with the DI sitting right beside him, called his therapist. Later that day he even managed to spot a flat that might suffice as a temporary home.

John wondered how much longer it'd take before the hollow ache gnawing all of him would disappear.

* * *

TBC?

* * *

A/N: Poor, poor John! He's having it incredibly tough right now. (winces)

PLEASE, do drop a line or two before you tune out! Good, bad, lukewarm? There's only one way to let me know. (smirks)

I've really gotta get going and start the process of hauling myself to bed. (yawns) I hope that I'll be seeing you around, with this story or some other.

Take care!

* * *

**toolazytologin**: That it was! We'll see just what comes along as these twins continue. (gulps) 'Hope you'll be just as happy with the chapters to come.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	3. August, Bleeding and Breathing

A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me this long to get back to this story! At first I was running short of typing-time and then I was on a little adventure. (winces) Buuut… I'm back now. Hooray?

THANK YOU, so much, for you reviews and support for this story! It seriously means the world to me. (HUGS)

Awkay, because I'm already kept you waiting for too long, let's rock. (gulps) I REALLY hope that this turns out worth the wait!

* * *

August – Bleeding and Breathing

* * *

When John first woke up he wasn't fully sure of what had happened. Pain, which seemed to be centered around his head and right side, was the first things that registered properly. Then there was the murmuring.

"… you hear me?"

That female voice was pleasant enough. Inviting, even. After a mighty struggle John managed to crack his eyes halfway open and groaned a protest when the room's far too bright, white light assaulted him. He tried to move his hand but for some reason it didn't seem to agree with him. With another groan he shifted ever so slightly. A disastrous mistake.

The agony that coursed through him was so overwhelming that he couldn't utter a sound. All he managed was to gasp and pray, from the bottom of his heart and soul, that it'd pass by quickly. His eyes flew wide open, searching frantically for answers.

"Try to calm down, alright?" It was that same female voice again. A hand brushed his in a calming gesture. "Your ribs went through quite a bit of pummeling. It also seems that you hit your head pretty badly."

Slowly yet surely John's vision, along with his trail of thought, began to grow clearer. The first thing he saw was that woman who called him back to the waken world. Blond hair and a smile that, despite the circumstances, made him feel just a little bit warmer. '_Mary, M_', a nurse, he managed to read from her nametag before the headache made comprehending another letter impossible.

And then he saw Sally Donovan.

At first John was too stunned for his body to react in any way. But then he actually felt his blood pressure spiking up and the increasing beats of his heart. The rage came flowing through him with such force that he shuddered.

Mary frowned, clearly noticing his discomfort. "It's alright, John. She's only here to ask some questions." The nurse didn't seem to like the idea of a cop harassing him one bit. "But first I'd like to ask you some questions. Do you remember your name?"

In a different situation that might've amused John a bit. He nodded the best as he could. "John." His voice was nothing but a pathetic croak. "Dr. John Watson."

Mary seemed pleased with his answer. "Good. And can you tell me where you work?"

Obediently John gave her the clinic's name and address. It was a brave place for having taken him despite the weightload of his… publicity as Sherlock's assistant and possible accomplice. Having found something reasonable to do had been his salvation. Not only had he needed work for the sake of his sanity but he had to admit that he also needed the money.

"John?" Mary's voice made him realize just how close to dozing off he came. There was a line of worry on her forehead. "No falling asleep yet, alright?" There was seriousness on her face that prepared him for the worst. "Do you remember how you ended up here?"

At first John didn't have a clue. But then, with brand new electric jolts of ache, it began to come back to him. He swallowed convulsively, all warmth fading away from him.

* * *

/ _John was on his way home from work and fully ready to go straight to bed after a glass of cool Whiskey. The thought of his warm bed took over so entirely that he didn't sense or hear the steps approaching him until it was too late. Sherlock would've been appalled by his lack of observational skills._

_"Hey, doc", a heavily nasal male voice he'd never heard before called out._

_Cold shivers went through John while he turned to see three tall and extremely muscular, bald men walking closer in a manner that reminded him of vultures closing in on their prey. His eyes narrowed while he prepared himself, adrenaline speeding through his veins. "Can I help you?"_

_"That fake detective of yours sent our brother to jail and I'd bet good money that the evidence was forged." The nasal guy pulled out a crowbar and tapped it in a very loudly speaking manner. "Since that bastard isn't here to get what he deserves… I suppose that we'll have to settle for you, _mate_."_

_John was more than capable of holding his own in a fight but this was three against one. He was outnumbered and unarmed. It was more than expected that things would go south very, very quickly._

_What happened next was a bit blurry. John fought back, of course. But no amount of kicks and punches was enough against the three huge men. Crowbars, fists, kicks… In the end he was too out of it to know what, exactly, was hitting him._

_The last conscious thought John could remember having was wondering whether Sherlock would be there waiting for him._ /

* * *

There was a tender hand rubbing John's back when he came back to himself. "Breathe, John. In, out. Good, that's good. Try to calm down a little."

John composed himself with the steely will of a soldier. He breathed, willed his mind far away from the attack – and saw Sally once more, standing nearby the room's wall with a uncertain look on his face. The flare of fury that overcame him made him see red.

Fortunately Mary spoke before he would've said something that he might not have regretted. "As you can clearly see he's in no condition to be interrogated. He's been unconscious for nearly two days and only just woke up." The nurse's tone was pleasant but there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She wasn't a force to be messed with. "He'll be here for a couple of more days. Why don't you send someone in tomorrow when he's more coherent?"

It was obvious that Sally didn't like it but she had very little choice. She nodded stiffly, then looked at John with what seemed to be genuine guilt and sadness. "John… For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry."

It wasn't in John's nature to be cruel. But in that moment the bitter snort escaped before he could even think about it. "A bit too late for that, don't you think?" She was a large part of the force that pushed Sherlock down a hospital's rooftop, destroyed the reputation of one of the greatest men he'd ever met. The doctor was far from ready to forgive that.

Sally didn't say another word, mostly because there was nothing left to be said. Instead she turned with a agonized expression on her face and walked out of the room. Although he didn't really care John wondered if he'd ever see her again.

Mary squeezed his shoulder. "You should rest. It's been a tough couple of days." She began to make her way towards the door. "I'll go and ask the doctor if I can give you something to help you relax. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

Whatever medication she soon gave him made John so drowsy that in the end he fell asleep. He dreamt of sand, of bullets, of moonlight shining on metal and of blood staining pavement. Each one of them he faced completely alone.

John was blissfully unaware of the couple of tears that trailed down his cheeks while he slept, curled up as much as he could and a look of intense pain on his face.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Poor John! He's in for quite a tough ride. (winces) If only he knew…

Soooo… Any good, at all? PLEASE, do let me know! (glances pleadingly)

Until next time, folks! I REALLY hope that you'll be hanging around until then.

Take care!


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